My First Job: A Rude Awakening to Urban Planning

Published on behalf of Dr Wendy Sarkissian (First draft)

Picture Source: Yale/New Haven Archives

In 1966, New Haven, Connecticut was a focal point for urban renewal efforts via a federal program aimed at revitalizing deteriorating urban areas. Urban renewal and the “Model Cities” program were rooted in a genuine desire to improve living conditions. The Federal program assumed that replacing old, dilapidated environments would address poverty and lack of opportunity for residents. However, this approach did not recognize the intrinsic value of existing social communities and relationships. As time passed, planners and others saw the shortcomings of urban renewal. They changed strategies.,but not before a lot of damage was done.

This story is about my experience in the early days of urban renewal, the only significant source of funding for urban areas at the time. My story, highlights the complexities and unintended consequences of well-intentioned policies.

***

I’m 24 years old, fresh-faced, and eager to make a difference in the world of urban renewal. And I do not possess a single relevant qualification. (I studied to be a high school English teacher but the Connecticut public school system reserves jobs for citizens. I’m Canadian. I look elsewhere for a job.)

I’ve just landed my first real job as a Research Assistant with the New Haven Redevelopment Agency (NHRA). This nine-month stint will forever change my perspectives on community development and the power dynamics at play in urban renewal.

As I step out of the elevator on the second floor of the NHRA’s building on Church Street, a buzz of activity hits me like a wave. Everybody is in a hurry. Urgency is in the air. Planners and officials hurry about, their arms laden with blueprints and reports. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the clatter of typewriters. It feels like the center of everything.

I’m a bundle of nerves and excitement. I’ve never been in an office like this before. Mostly, I worked as a typist while I finished college. This is something else, for sure! “Welcome to the Model City, Wendy,” my new boss, Margot Mitchell, says with a wry smile. She welcomes me into her cluttered office and lights another Lucky Strike.

Margot has been a career public servant for decades, She’s warm and supportive with a no- nonsense approach to her work. It’s simple. We just work on things until they get done. That means working long days and most weekends. Everybody seems to feel that this is normal. Our
big boss, Chuck, often drops into the office at 8 pm on a weeknight, just to see who’s still working. Chuck spends most weekends in his glass-paneled office.

Margot signals me to a seat across from her desk. She hands me a stack of papers, a huge book, and a massive map.
“No time to spare, Wendy. Your first task is to calculate the demolition costs for all the dwellings in our Fair Haven neighborhood. We need to get an accurate estimate of how much it’ll cost to clear out all those old buildings.”

Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fair_Haven,_New_Haven

I nod eagerly and try to hide my unease.

This is progress. Right? This is how we make cities better. I return to my desk and spread the map across it. Its creases and folds reveal a patchwork of streets and buildings. Each structure is marked with a code, corresponding to entries in the thick demolition cost book.
* One-story wooden house: $600
* Two-story wooden house: $1,200
* Brick building: $1,800

My fingers trace down columns of figures, the numbers dancing before my eyes as I tally the costs. With each calculation, I can’t help but think of the families living in these homes and the businesses operating from these buildings. It’s all so clinical on paper: just figures and codes. But
behind each number is a life, a story, a piece of New Haven’s fabric about to be torn away.”

“Good God,” I mutter under my breath, “I’m messing with someone’s entire world here.”

After days of painstaking work, I reach a final figure: $240,000 (in 1966 dollars) to demolish 107 dwellings in New Haven’s Fair Haven neighborhood. The number feels staggering, yet somehow inadequate to capture the true cost of displacing an entire community.

As the weeks pass, I delve deeper into the demolition statistics and the human cost becomes impossible to ignore. Between 1954 and 1966, the City of New Haven demolished 5,000 living units and displaced 7,704 families: a total of 22,496 people. To me, each statistic represents lives upended, a community torn apart.

One afternoon, I overhear two colleagues discussing the “Yale lawyers” who staff the fourth floor of our building. Curious, I ask for more details.

“Oh, those guys?” one of them chuckles. “They’re the real magicians around
here. Whole floor of ’em. They spend their time finding creative ways
around those pesky federal regulations. The folks in Washington at the
Department of Housing and Urban Development (we call them HUD) can’t
keep up with our lawyers. As soon as we invent something in New Haven,
like some sneaky new way to get round their rules, the Feds prohibit it for
other communities. We’re always one jump ahead of them.”

I feel a knot forming in my stomach. Is this what urban renewal is about? Clever legal maneuvers and massive displacement? I investigate it a bit more. It turns out that New Haven, under Mayor Richard Lee’s leadership from 1954 to 1970, received more federal urban renewal funding per
capita than any other American city: a staggering $790 per person by 1967. By 1971 urban renewal had affected one-third of New Haven’s land area — or approximately 2,400 acres — and half of its population. But as I witness the human cost of this transformation, I can’t help but wonder: what’s the price of this so-called “progress’?

Mayor Lee is a bit of a contradiction. On the one hand, in public orations, he speaks passionately about his love for New Haven and the power of his dreams to build a better city. One other hand,he refuses to use the language of emotion or to display emotional intelligence in his written communications.

My colleagues at the Agency speak in excited tones about the future they’re building: “We’re going to transform this city “New Haven will be a model for the entire country.” But the grand plans we discuss in our air conditioned offices seem far removed from the realities of the neighborhoods we’re supposedly improving.

One afternoon, I overhear a conversation that makes my blood run cold. Two senior planners are discussing the relocation of families from the State Street neighborhood. “They’ll thank us in the end,” one says with a smirk. “We’re dragging them into the 20th century, whether they like it or not.”

As I delve deeper into my work, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing God with people’s lives in the State Street neighborhood. This neighborhood, once a melting pot of Eastern European Jews, Southern Italians, and Greeks, was experiencing a significant shift in its population makeup. Increasingly, white residents were moving to the suburbs. New Haven’s white population declined by 16% between 1950 and 1960. The State Street neighborhood was becoming more racially diverse, particularly with a growing African American presence.

The architectural fabric of State Street in 1967 reflected its rich history. When I walked the streets, I found a diverse array of buildings. Well over 80% were constructed between 1865 and 1900. These structures, ranging from 2.5 to 3.5 stories tall, stood close to the street on narrow, deep lots. The result is a dense urban environment that showcases a variety of architectural styles, including Greek Revival, Italianate, Queen Anne, and Classical Revival, housing a mix of commercial-residential, light industrial, religious, and educational buildings.

What I did not know then was that in 1966, the local Citizens’ Action Commission had formed an architectural review committee amid concerns over demolition projects in Fair Haven). I learned later that the State Street project represented the period’s last major push for redevelopment. This was by far the City’s costliest proposal at $43 million. It was intended as the final link in the downtown business rejuvenation.

As I read more, made more calculations, and walk the streets of the State Street neighborhood on my lunch breaks, the numbers on my spreadsheets come to represent real buildings, real homes, real businesses, and real communities. In the State Street neighborhood, each store is a human enterprise, supporting many people, often an extended family. Yet in our meetings back in the office, they are reduced to mere obstacles in the path of progress.

The more I explore the State Street neighborhood, the more concerned I become. It’s primarily a commercial district with a mix of retail, light industrial, and mixed-use commercial-residential buildings. This bustling commercial district featured longtime establishments like Malley’s department store, which coexisted with smaller retail shops, package stores, and light industrial businesses. I write the names of the establishments in my notebook: Frank’s Hat Cleaning, Mohawk Market, D’Ursu’s Barber Shop, Shur Credit Adjustment Service, Ace Furniture, Libby’s Fruit Market, United Bake Shop, Rosner’s Market, Gambardella’s Produce, Nicholas Furniture, Rosenfield’s Shoes, John’s Bargain Stores, Silver Liquor, Lake Lane Hosiery, D’Annato Guitar Service, Kay’s Corset Shop, DiLeone Music Store, Heidi’s Uniform Shop, Ship-Shape Sandwich Shop, T.M. Clancy Recording Studio… This eclectic blend of commerce
reflects the neighborhood’s historical role as a vital commercial center.

One day, I muster up the courage to voice my concerns to one of my male colleagues. “Shouldn’t we be consulting more with the people in these neighborhoods?” I ask hesitantly.

Bill Donohue regards me with a mixture of amusement and pity and leans back in his chair. “Listen, Wendy, we’re the experts here. You’re new here but soon you’ll work things out. These people don’t know what’s best for them. Our job is to build a better city, not to hold their hands.”

Bill’s words leave me feeling hollow. Is this what urban planning and renewal are all about? Imposing our vision on communities without their contributions or consent?

While I am not trained as a planner, I have had lots of different jobs in my short life and before too long, I work out what’s really going on. First, while we’re dealing with huge sums of money (and survey and planning budgets are regularly increased), there seems to be little real accountability. Everything is happening in a huge rush, like a “scattergun” approach. To me, our processes feel “opportunistic” and “seat-of-the-pants”. Despite that, everything seems to take forever. I witness a lot of “ram-it-through,” tight scheduling. And, surprisingly, despite the rhetoric about teamwork, our approaches feel very top-down, with initiatives coming mostly from the top: the Mayor, the Agency Chairman, the Director (Chuck Shannon), and the Assistant Director (Bob Dolezal).

In generally, the staff dismiss any criticism or so-called “input” from community members. Memos that pass my desk are often highly critical of those who speak out against the Agency’s programs, including Yale academics and lawyers. And I can find nothing that resembles community engagement or community planning (as I came to understand them later).

Near the end of my short time at the Agency, I watch as historic buildings are reduced to rubble and tight-knit communities are scattered to the winds. All in the name of progress. All part of the grand experiment that is the “Model City”. It’s a brutal education in the realities of urban planning and politics. My first job is systematically eroding my idealism. It’s being replaced by a growing sense of disillusionment and guilt.

If this is planning, it’s not for me.

My First Public Meeting
I’m about to attend my first public meeting. It’s only a short walk from our office. I approach the New Haven Hall of Records, struck by its imposing neoclassical façade. The building’s polychromatic stonework, composed of various shades of sandstone and limestone, immediately catches my eye. It stands out prominently among the surrounding buildings. I feel intimidated by the grandness of this important civic building.

An impressive sight greets me as I enter the building. The grand foyer features an elaborate staircase with intricate ironwork that adds to the building’s ornate character. When I finally get inside the meeting hall, I’m in awe. That space feels formal and stately, with high ceilings and carefully chosen materials that speak to its civic function.

As I climb the steep stairs to the back of the balcony, I wonder: would the State Street merchants feel more comfortable in a meeting on their own turf, in a familiar building in their own neighborhood? To me, the Hall feels intimidating.

Tonight, the Hall is packed. Nearly 400 people, most of them Italian-speaking merchants from State Street. On the stage are display boards that show the “before” and “after” of State Street. The “before” is their world. The “after” is a clinical, sterile vision of progress that seems to have
nothing to do with their lived experience.

The Hall pulses with tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. From my perch in the balcony’s back row, I lean forward to watch a tragedy unfold in real time. Our boss, Chuck Shannon, takes the stage first. He takes the microphone and his voice booms with bureaucratic confidence.

“State Street is outmoded and blighted! This neighbourhood has been clamoring for renewal assistance for many years,” Chuck declares. He unfurls large maps that show proposed changes that slice through the neighborhood like surgical instruments. I watch the merchants’ faces.
Confusion first. Then anger. Then a deep, visceral fear.

No interpretation. No translation. No explanations. An elderly merchant sitting below me mutters, “Cosa sta dicendo? Non capisco.” His hands are trembling. I feel a lump in my throat as I realize I can’t help him.

Another shouts, “You’re lying!” The room erupts into a cacophony of protest.

“Fallacies!” someone calls out. “You’re destroying our lives!”

Harry Skinner, our traffic and parking guy, follows Chuck. He’s the one with the maps, charts, and tables and he presents traffic flow diagrams that look like abstract art to the bewildered audience. Technical jargon cascades over the crowd: “traffic optimization,” “urban renewal,” “infrastructure improvements.” I imagine that these words mean nothing to people who have spent generations building small businesses on State Street.

I scan the room and realize with a sickening feeling that probably most of these merchants speak only Italian. Yet the entire meeting is conducted in English that ensures their complete exclusion from a process that will determine their entire future.

Their faces tell the story that words cannot. Confusion. Anger. Desperation. These are not abstract statistics. These are human beings watching us dismantle their world in a language they cannot understand.

An elderly woman clutches a worn photograph of a relative standing outside her family’s first store. He helped build this community brick by brick. Her eyes fill with a mixture of rage and helplessness.

A few rows below me, a middle-aged woman stands up abruptly. “Basta! Non capiamo niente!” she cries out. Her voice trembles with emotion. The officials on stage exchange uncomfortable glances but continue their presentation as if nothing happened. TThe Hall descends into chaos.

Hands wave.

Voices rise.

“You’re ignoring the facts!” someone shouts in broken English.

“Ci state distruggendo la vita!” an older man bellows. He raises his fist in the air. Although I cannot understand his words, the anguish in his voice is unmistakable. All around me, Italian phrases fill the air: desperate attempts to be heard and understood.

As I sit there, frozen in my seat, a sickening realization washes over me. This isn’t a dialogue. It isn’t even a real meeting. It’s a performance, a cruel charade played out in the name of “community consultation” or “having your say.” The meeting’s outcome was decided long before any of us set foot in this Hall.

Later, back at a raucous office party to celebrate our triumph, I wrinkle my nose and recoil instinctively as a lawyer’s bourbon-soaked breath washes over me. He’s from the fourth floor, for sure.
“You’re the new girl on the third floor, eh, Wendy? I hear you’re a ‘Yale wife’. I’m a law graduate, you know. Do you want to see how things really work around here, Wendy?” he slurs, spittle flying from his lips.

The morning after the State Street meeting, Chuck’s secretary, Susie, flies from New Haven to Washington on the first flight. The train is too plebeian for such an occasion. She takes a taxi to the HUD office from the airport. By late afternoon, she returns to our office with a check for 13 million dollars.

“Mission accomplished. Stage one of State Street completed. Finito!” she exclaims, breathless and grinning, as we bump into each other in the kitchen.

I feel sick. Clearly last night’s tokenistic meeting was all that stood between the Agency and 13 million dollars.

“But the meeting…” I start to protest.

Susie cuts me off.

“That report was written last week, kid. That’s how we do it around here.

That public meeting was just a formality. It’s a done deal.”

I’ve witnessed the Wild Edge of Planning for the first time. Sadly, it won’t be my last encounter. That edge is where human stories meet bureaucratic ambition. And in New Haven in the mid- sixties, I learned, brutally and completely, that progress without compassion is nothing more than organized destruction. I lost my innocence and glimpsed the ugly truths behind urban renewal and the human costs of our grand plans and visions.

How could I continue to be part of this? How could I reconcile my ideals with this brutal reality?

Reflections on a career shaped by New Haven
In January 2025, as I sit down to write about these early experiences, I’m struck by their contemporary relevance. Urban planning continues to grapple with many of the same issues we faced in New Haven in the mid-1960s. The tension between progress and preservation, top-down
planning and community-led development, short-term gains and long-term sustainability: these concerns are all still very much alive in planning today.

The failures of urban renewal in places like New Haven taught us valuable lessons. Today, I see a growing emphasis on community engagement, preserving neighborhood character, and considering the social and economic impacts of physical changes to our cities.

My brief time in New Haven opened my eyes to the complexities and contradictions of urban renewal. It showed me the importance of authentic community engagement, of listening to the softest voices of those most affected by our plans. It taught me to question the motives behind grand schemes and never to forget that behind every statistic, every plan, every column of numbers are real people. Our decisions will profoundly affect those human lives.

Now, I carry those lessons with me. I strive to do better, to listen more, and never to lose sight of the human element. The Wild Edge of Planning I experienced in New Haven became my compass. It guided me towards more ethical, inclusive, and truly progressive approaches to shaping our cities. In the end, the true measure of our success as planners is not in the grandeur of our designs or the efficiency of our systems. It’s in the lives we improve, the communities we strengthen, and the voices we amplify. And it’s in our ability to listen to the softest voices.

Lessons from the Wild Edge
Five decades later, I realize how formative those nine months were. Here are some ot the lessons I learned in my first professional job, which guided my subsequent career in community planning:
1. We must strive for authentic community engagement. The top-down approach I witnessed in New Haven, with its tokenistic “consultation,” breeds resentment and resistance.
2. Numbers never tell the whole story. Behind every statistic is a human life, a family, a business, a community. We must never lose sight of the people we’re meant to serve.
3. Progress at any cost is not true progress. The wholesale destruction of neighborhoods in the name of renewal often does more harm than good.
4. We must address issues of language and cultural barriers. The failure to provide translators or culturally appropriate communication in New Haven effectively silenced a significant portion of that local community.
5. We must consider long-term consequences. The focus on short-term gains in New Haven led to decisions that would haunt that City for decades. The displacement of thousands of families wasn’t just a statistic. It became a generational trauma.
6. We must strive to achieve transparency and honesty. The deception I saw, with pre- written reports and predetermined outcomes, undermined the legitimacy of the entire planning process for State Street.
7. Planners must preserve community fabric. The destruction of existing neighborhoods and displacement of residents tore apart social networks that took generations to build.
8. We need interdisciplinary approaches to community engagement. The focus on physical redevelopment in New Haven ignored the complex social and economic factors at play.
9. Our engagement processes must be flexible and adaptable. The rigid, grand plans of New Haven failed to account for changing demographics and economic trends. The city’s vision of progress was stuck in time and blind to the evolving needs of its residents and merchants.
10. We must place ethical considerations at the forefront of all planning decisions. In the State Steet planning process, disregard for the well-being of existing residents in favor of abstract notions of “progress” was, in my view, deeply unethical.

References
Donnarummo, Frank (1967). “Bitter Foes Blast State St. Renewal Plan,” New Haven Morning Journal-Courier, January 30.

Yale University. Archives at Yale: New Haven Redevelopment Agency Records, accessed March 2013: https://archives.yale.edu/repositories/12/resources/4521
and12/archival_objects/1528241

26 January 2025
Ref: New Haven story final with CM edits 26 January 2025